I stuffed it with apples and sprinkled it with sugar and fed it to my children. This is not disturbing. The knife through the pastry, the cracking of sugar crust: this is what feeds, what creates. A rib cage for a rib cage. A breath for a breath.
The accident was remembering. While my head thought "breakfast," my hands thought "pulmonary" and brought me aware.
There are things the body knows. Sweetness, for example, which exists only where tongues can recognize it. And now, mindlessly folding and slashing pastry, my hands surprise me not at the moment of creation but after, when I pull open the oven and slide it, piping hot, to board.
As I looked, the steam lifting through vents kissed my cheek. It is no dark thing to build a ribcage for breakfast.
